


Touch

by wordsthatkeepyouhome



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Child Abuse, Crossover, Drug Use, First Kiss, Kid Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatkeepyouhome/pseuds/wordsthatkeepyouhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell him he is special. And at three years, forty-one weeks and six days of age, Sherlock truly believe he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This time, Sherlock is the one with Ned's abilities. WARNING: mentions child abuse and drug abuse. Beta'd by Rowan (abitofholmesandwatson on Tumblr)

They tell him he is special. And at three years, forty-one weeks and six days of age, Sherlock truly believe he is. He just seems to  _know_  things. Doesn't ask a lot of questions. Doesn't talk.  _At all_. Words are tedious. Speech is boring. He notices, he observes. The answers are there, everywhere, scattered like clues; Sherlock knows where to look, sees them all so clearly, and he can't understand why people bother asking questions at all. "Who tracked in the mud on my clean floors?" "Who ate the cake?" "Where did I leave my keys?" All of them so pointless. The answers are there, glaringly obvious as the mud on his shoes, the crumbs on the corners of Mycroft's mouth, the jingling noise coming from his father's right jacket pocket. His parents tell him he is special. And he believes them. But he can't explain the pitying glances from guests and strangers, the hushed sobs in the corner, the muffled yelling behind closed doors.  _Your fault. Your fault. Your son's a freak._

He wonders why. And for once he can't find the answer. And for the first time, he asks. And then they tell him he is extraordinary.

* * *

He can't turn it off. The noise in his head grows louder each day, noticing things, finding answers and patterns and clues, following the trail of bread crumbs. Sherlock is tired, so very tired of being special and extraordinary. The answers never stop coming and they plague him more than the questions ever could. He can't stop himself hearing, can't stop himself seeing and he wishes he can just hide himself away from the world and all its answers threatening to overwhelm him. And so he hides. He looks for the quietest place on the estate and he finds it, just as he finds everything else. A groove between two tree roots, perfectly curved for his frame, far enough from the house that he can no longer hear the shoutings and the goings-on within those walls, hidden enough that no one could see him unless they know he's there. The leaves rustle in the wind and there are birds (a mother with three chicks judging by the sound) chirping somewhere above him. He settles in comfortably, closes his eyes, thinking he can get some peace for a while.  _No stimulus, no response._ But his brain doesn't seem to understand that and Sherlock finds himself thinking of past events, finding parallels and continuities, lines connecting this and that. There is no retreat.

He opens his eyes just as a sharp cry and frantic chirping broke out. And then a thud. A bird is lying on the ground. Sherlock looks up only to see a retreating tail. He looks back at the bird and approaches, kneeling down just before it. He can see where the cat had bitten it and drawn blood. One of its legs give a final twitch and then it dies. Sherlock prods it just to be sure. Just.  _One_. Touch.  _Life._  The bird stirs and jumps on its feet. It ruffles its feathers and rubs its beak against the blood, trying to clean it. And then it looks at him curiously… looks past him… and Sherlock looks back just as the cat pounces, lunging for the bird and missing by an inch. The cat jumps again in a desperate attempt to catch the bird, but then it just drops dead. Sherlock doesn't know, doesn't understand what happened. One moment the bird is dead and then it is not. One moment the cat is alive and then it is not. Fifteen breaths, Sherlock remembers. He remembers that everything had happened within the span of fifteen breaths. He counts. Four seconds each. Sixty seconds total. He has more questions than there are answers. But Sherlock knows where to find them. He always knows where to look. They tell him he is special. They tell him he is extraordinary. And they are right.

Sherlock is six years, twenty-two weeks, four days and two hours old when he finds out that he has a gift. He can touch dead things and bring them back to life. But only for a minute or else something else must take its place. The cat dies and Sherlock pokes it. Once, and it lives. Once again, and it dies. Third touch, nothing. And so he knows. First touch, life; Second touch, dead forever. He doesn't tell anyone.

* * *

They call him a freak. He never believes them. But how else can he explain his lack of friends? If only he can stop the noises in his head from coming out of his mouth, if he can only stop himself  _knowing_  things. They think he is a freak. Maybe they can sense it too, can smell it on his skin.  _Different_. He doesn't have friends. They are all stupid anyway, Sherlock thinks to himself. He doesn't want to be friends with them even if they want to. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. They are all  _ordinary._

* * *

"You're special, I can tell," the boy tells him. Blonde, blue eyes, and a wide, toothy grin, wearing a hideously lumpy oatmeal jumper.

Sherlock smiles back and he is nine years, three months, two days and eleven hours old when he makes his first friend. One John Watson.

* * *

They say they are inseparable. Almost like brothers. And Sherlock believes them. To be quite honest, he'd probably trade Mycroft for John if he could. But he knows well enough to know that it won't be a fair exchange. John is… so much more.

Sherlock tells him things. And it continuously surprises him that John listens. He tells him about the bread crumbs, the clues, the answers tucked away in the most obvious of things yet everyone else fail to observe. He tells him about the noise in his head, the endless unquiet with maps and trails and pattern-finding lines crisscrossing everywhere. But he doesn't tell him about his gift. He wonders if John knows, if he can tell that Sherlock was hiding something. John never says. Instead, John follows him, goes with him. And when the noise becomes too much, John tells him stories about dragons and heroes, kings and queens. And Sherlock builds them a palace in his head. John makes it better. John makes him better. They say they are inseparable and Sherlock truly wishes they are.

But then Sherlock sees the bruises peeking out from under long sleeves and sweaters. He can see the tension in John's body as his father drops him off at school, hugs him and ruffles his blonde hair. After that he can smell the faint traces of alcohol on his skin. The answers are ricocheting in his head, loud bangs and warning bells. But as John walks towards him, all smiles and warmth, the darkness concealed behind his kind eyes, Sherlock clamps his mouth shut. He wants to be kind too.

* * *

But the darkness becomes too great for John to hide behind his eyes. He sits beside Sherlock on his bed, head down and partly in shadow. Sherlock can see the glistening tears and he can hear the sobs John swallows down. "You could stay here if you want," Sherlock says, right hand on John's left shoulder, gripping it reassuringly.

"No, I have to go home. I-," he clears his throat, "I have to protect Harry."

They tell him they are inseparable, but God, John just seems so far away. He thinks of what he can do, how he can touch dead things and bring them back to life. Sherlock can give life. But right then, he feels like taking. He wants to take John's pain and make it disappear. He wants to make  _him_ disa-  _No. It isn't right. John would never- He wouldn't- He couldn't- No._  John makes him better. John makes everything better. And Sherlock wishes he can do something for him. But everything that makes him special and extraordinary seems so useless. John isn't dead and there are no questions that needed answering. There are only facts. _John is scared. John is sad. John would go home. John would protect Harry. John seems so far away._ And so Sherlock hugs him, wraps his arms around him and holds him close. John isn't dead so Sherlock's touch won't bring him back to life. But he hugs him. And he wipes his tears away. And he holds the back of John's neck and touches his forehead to his. And he hugs him again. The ordinary touch, it seems to Sherlock, can do so much more.

* * *

John's father dies and Sherlock doesn't bring him back. He holds John's hand throughout the funeral and as they lower the coffin into the ground. He thinks this is good enough.

* * *

They always say that they are inseparable. So why then is John enlisting?

Sherlock is fifteen years, nine months, twenty eight weeks and four hours old and he thinks he should have seen this coming. The act itself is so utterly  _John_. He wants to be a doctor, but he won't burden his mum.  _That in addition to his protective instincts… Joining the army – elegant solution._ They pay for his education and he finds his next adventure. And he's gone and found himself a battlefield.

He doesn't want him to go, but he can't bring himself to say it. He wants to tell him how he makes things better, how he makes him better, how he quiets the shoutings and goings-on in his mind, how much he needs him and wants him, but he can't. He can't even look at him. This is goodbye. This is John leaving him, signing up for war, adventures and battlefields, bullets and explosions, getting shot and blown up and killed. He doesn't want him to go. He can't even say it. He can't even look at him.

"You'd make a great army doctor," is what he ends up saying.

"Sherlock, come on. Look at me."

He won't. Tears are welling up in his eyes and they're too close to falling.

John touches his chin and makes Sherlock face him. Their eyes lock and John reads the emotion on his face.

_Don't go._

_Stay._

_I need you._

A swell of feelings rises in John's chest and he stands on the tips of his toes and kisses him, hand moving from Sherlock's chin to the base of his neck.  _Stimulus, response._ And Sherlock responds at once. The tears fall as he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around John's waist. And then he opens his mouth and he feels John's tongue and it's their first kiss and why now why not then and he can't think straight and this is goodbye.

They break apart and John is a bit embarrassed by their fervor but a smile is playing on his lips and his eyes are dilated and bright and blue.

"Wow, that was…" John starts to say.

"Come back in one piece. Promise me you'll come back," Sherlock says in a rush.  _You need to come back in one piece. If you're dead I can bring you back. Just come back in one piece._

"I'll try. Just promise me you won't do anything stupid."

They hug and then John leaves him. They don't promise to write. They don't offer any platitudes. They've always said they were inseparable. They're wrong.

* * *

With John gone, the noises come back full force. There is a battlefield raging inside his head. There are lines everywhere, connecting separate events. There are letters and words floating in his vision, telling him things.  _Journalist. Left-handed. Smoker. One dog. Two cats. Unhappily married._ They poke him and prod him and rub his skin raw. And Sherlock does his best to fight it. He studies. He graduates from university and then he gets bored. The lines are growing sharper and the words bolder and they are screaming at him and he is losing. He wants it all to stop.  _Here's the needle, here's the drug and there's the vein. Make it stop._ And he's whispering apologies,  _sorry John, I'm so sorry,_ as he sticks the needle in and finds an escape. His seven-percent solution.

* * *

Sherlock is twenty-five years, twenty-three hours, eleven minutes and fifty-two seconds old and he is coming down from a high. He stumbles into an alleyway, falling down next to the bins. He sees a hand from the corner of his eye and he tilts his head up to get a better look.  _Male. Early twenties. Right-handed. Smoker._ He fishes a cigarette from his pocket and slaps the hand once.

"Do you have a lighter?" He asks.

The guy feels his pockets and finds one in his right. He pulls it out and flicks a flame for Sherlock to light his cigarette.

"What happened?" He asked blearily, rubbing his face and then the back of his neck. He jumps up suddenly. "I was attacked! Someone came at me from behind with a string or a wire of some sort…"

Sherlock sees the ligature marks on the guy's neck dimly, light coming from one of street lamps.

"It happened right there!" He points, somewhere further in the alley. "Come and take a look," he says and he grabs Sherlock's wrist and he drops down as if a charge was sent through him.

Sherlock sighs, as if the guy's death has somehow inconvenienced him. He fishes his phone from his pocket and calls it in. "I'd like to report a murder."

Several cars arrive a few minutes later. Forensics team, detectives, police men,  _all of them idiots_ , Sherlock thinks. Especially since they insist he's the killer. He promptly tells them that their stupidity could actually kill someone and he takes them through the scene.

* * *

Sherlock invents a profession for himself.  _Consulting detective._ And he gets clean as part of his agreement with Detective Inspector Lestrade. He gives him cases, "You like the interesting ones, the weird ones," he says and he gives him those. Triple homicides, serial killings, murders in sealed rooms. Sometimes he's stumped. Sometimes he cheats. Just one touch and the dead talk to him. He doesn't like doing it very often.

* * *

Two years later, he hears the news from Mycroft. John is thirty years, ten months, sixteen days and seven hours old and he is dead.  _Shot. Left Shoulder. Surgery. Complications. Sorry._

"Just bring him back," is all he says. He hangs up.

And he's crying and he's laughing and his brain is a chorus of  _John is dead, he's dead, but he's coming back, John's coming back._ And minutes pass and he doesn't know whether he's crying more or laughing more.

_John is dead and he's coming back. I'm bringing him back._

* * *

He finds a quiet moment before they move the coffin to the burial site and he locks the doors. He takes off his gloves and he walks toward the open casket.

John is lying in there in his uniform, looking blissfully at peace. For a moment, Sherlock hesitates.  _What if. What if. What if._ He files all his doubts away to look at later. Having one more minute, if John decides he only wants one, won't be something he'll ever regret.

He presses one long finger to John's lips and John's eyes fly open. He steps back carefully as John sits up.

"I'm dead," he says, patting his arms, then his chest, one hand lingering on his wounded shoulder and then his face. "I'm dead," he says again.

"Wrong," Sherlock replies. "You  _were_ dead. But I brought you back. I can do that, you see. I can touch dead things and bring them back to life. If I were to touch you again, you'd be dead forever."

John gawks at him and shakes his head, "Amazing, you are. Impossible."

He climbs out of the coffin and moves towards him. Sherlock holds a hand out to stop him.

"You can't touch me."

"So a kiss is out of the question?"

"Is a kiss worth dying for then?"

"You're a really good kisser from what I remember," John smiles and Sherlock chuckles.

"I'm serious, John. Do you want to stay? Or have you had enough? You have about fifteen seconds left."

"What happens if I stay?"

"Someone else has to go. Randomly. A proximity thing. Someone dies."

John could've lunged and touched Sherlock right then, but he doesn't. Time runs out for somebody else. A loud thud from beyond the door.

"It's not Harry. It can't be Harry. She's already gone to where they're burying you. So it must be one of the people on your transport detail. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I've put this on you."

"Hey, don't be sorry," John says, moving closer. He reaches for one of the gloves in Sherlock's hand, careful not to touch the skin and he puts it on. "It's my choice. I'll live with it. Live being the operative word." He lifts a gloved hand and presses it against Sherlock's face, brushing his thumb against his cheek.

They stand in silence for a while, just breathing each other's air.

"So I'm a consulting detective now," Sherlock informs him. "The only one in the world. I invented the job. The police consult me when they're out of their depth. Which is always, quite frankly. I don't know how they solved crimes without me."

"A detective huh? It suits you."

Sherlock smiles.

"You're an army doctor then. Were you any good?"

"I was very good."

"Saw a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God yes."

"Well then, be a good little soldier and play dead. I'll rescue you later before they bury you. Hell, I'd dig you up if I have to," he jokes.

But John detects something else in his voice and the humour lands flat. Sherlock wants to look away, but John holds him there, hand still resting on his cheek.

"Hey, we'll figure this out together, okay?"

Sherlock nods, lifting a hand to grab John's arm and pressing a kiss on the glove. He thinks to himself,  _they were right. They were right all along._


End file.
